The realization
by AnotherFanFic
Summary: One-shot in which John and Sherlock are thinking about separate things, and John comes to a startling conclusion. JohnLock. **Please R&R, any/all reviews are appreciated.**


John fell dejectedly into his chair by the fireplace, opposite Sherlock, who had been wandering in his mind palace for the last two hours. He knew he'd been grumpy all week, and probably less than pleasant to live with. He hadn't had a date in a month, and he'd struck out at the local pub again tonight. He sighed in frustration, and began to voice his thoughts out loud.

"I am the common denominator," he tossed out. "Therefore, _I_ must be doing something wrong."

Even with Sherlock in a kind of trance, John at least had the _illusion_ of not talking to himself.

"Maybe I've just been looking in the wrong places...Time for some research." Working himself into problem-solving mode, he opened his laptop and his browser, and typed in, "New...dating... trends." He spoke each word aloud.

He clicked on the first of the match-up sites and immediately decided against setting up an online profile. It was so impersonal, meeting people this way. One-dimensional. He could never get on board with it.

And the ads! It seemed there was something for every taste. John wasn't interested in ads. "Look at that. All of them, trying to tell people what they ought to want-"

It struck him then, that he - that John Watson - could not verbalize what he actually wanted in a relationship. Beyond a good shag, of course.

Perhaps that was what he needed to find out. Spend a bit of time on personal growth instead of a nice pity party. He laughed at his unexpectedly philosophical turn of thought.

Sherlock huffed impatiently and John quieted down. He sat for more than an hour, thinking on his past relationships. What did he want today? Was it different from what he'd always wanted? What exactly had that been?

"Oh, do shut up John! I can't think when you're babbling on so."

John shifted in his chair and scowled at Sherlock. He knew he hadn't spoken a word aloud for some time, that it was merely his concentrated thinking that was crowding out the detective's train of thought. He sank back into his reverie and laid it all out in his mind.

_I want to be in love with someone who sees my true value as a person, who accepts me as a fixture in their life. I want someone who can benefit from my strengths and complement my shortcomings. A person I can trust with the all the parts of myself that I want to share; perhaps even other parts I don't yet know I want to share. Someone who can benefit from my looking after them, and who would look after me as well. Someone I wouldn't mind seeing every day. _

_Not bad looking. Nor boring, by any means. I want to understand a person, and be understood. I want us to be able to say, truthfully, 'it's you and me against the world.' We'll have adventures together, and then sit and have tea in peace, each in our own..._

_-in love with!...adventures!... and __someone who can benefit from my looking. __after. them..._

He didn't dare chance a glance at the chair sitting opposite. Even as his brain was working it out, he found he'd already known...

"of course..." he spoke aloud.

_Of course...!_

"Sherlock Holmes," he said abruptly, the realization finally dawned.

The detective had stepped outside of his mind palace some time ago and had been watching him ever since. Now that John was aware of his presence, he glared at him pointedly, certain the reproach would be properly received.

But John just grinned stupidly, and Sherlock frowned. "What?!"

The doctor couldn't mask the wonderment in his face, or in his tone. "Oh. My God," was all he could muster. Inwardly, he thought, _How to tell him we're both mad for one another without sending him running into the next county? _

Sherlock looked at him with undisguised suspicion, and when John broke the silence in the flat with only: "Sherlock-" the air was set to humming with electricity.

The detective's eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. John sought eye contact, and when Sherlock caught the full intensity of his best friend's gaze he practically leapt from his chair.

"Yes, John." The baritone voice cracked as he answered to his name. Quite unexpectedly, he found himself floundering in the grip of some horrible convergence of ... _sentiments?_ He forced himself not to clear his throat.

"It's you..." John rose from his chair. "You... git!" He was still smiling, half giddy.

Sherlock swallowed. His stomach did a curious flip-flop, while at the same time he felt goosebumps rising on his back, triceps, thighs. He took a half-step backward.

"It's you." The doctor moved forward, toward the taller man, covering slightly more ground than the space that had previously lain between them. Sherlock was fighting feelings he didn't recognize as feelings. He was experiencing something completely foreign to him, and sought shelter in the power of deducing his surroundings.

_John - What is John doing? Bright-eyed, slightly flushed, clearly excited. Breathing heavily, without having exerted himself at all._

To Sherlock's horror, his own heart was hammering wildly away in response, so much so that he could barely think above the roaring it produced in his ears.

"Sherlock." John spoke gently now, and ceased coming closer to his friend, whose retreat abruptly ended when his back hit the wall. His eyes widened; his knees threatened to buckle underneath him. He might have forgotten to breathe. John's voice came to him again, and he struggled to concentrate on the sound of it.

"It's alright." Sherlock's nail-bitten fingers were taken up by warm and calloused hands. John's kind expression searched his face, watched him exhale, his eyes darting desperately about the room. John waited patiently, until Sherlock's eyes grew a bit more steely and detached, and finally trusted themselves to settle on his face.

The detective spoke, fully in control now. _Fake it til you make it? _He tried for his sternest 'I'm-warning-you' voice, but unfortunately achieved the same half-cracked, sentiment-filled sound as before. "John."

The doctor _almost_ didn't catch himself. He nearly giggled with delight at the reality of being thus received, but was checked by the fear that his joy might be mistaken for ridicule. The quick changing of emotions was mirrored on his friend's face, a face that was suddenly open in spite of itself; and John knew the detective was unaware that he was showing his hand.

John Watson's eyes shone at this new confirmation. His thumbs began tracing steady circles over the tops of Sherlock's long-fingered hands. The action soothed the detective's anxiety and excited his arousal at the same time. Neither effect went unnoticed by his faithful blogger. John made a decision.

He released Sherlock's fingers after an encouraging squeeze, and moved his hands purposefully over the layers of fabric that covered the detective's toned arms. Sherlock was momentarily paralyzed, his back plastered to the wall, his head light as a feather. He shivered, and John slowly rubbed along his upper arms, warming them with a rush of blood. A thrill shot up the detective's spine and hovered there.

"Okay, Sherlock?" Sherlock didn't trust himself to speak, but gave a jerky nod of his curly head. John chuckled softly and said in a low voice: "I'm very glad for that." He tottered forward, rocked back on his heels, waited a beat. "I'm going to kiss you now."

Sherlock's heart was in his throat. He was so out of his element, he thought he might be sick. _Not my area._ He closed his eyes against the feeling of being hopelessly adrift, but squeezed them tighter when John's soothing hands went suddenly missing.

Before he could catalog his reactions to this _brilliant!_ physical contact and its subsequent loss, the doctor was touching him again. Now at his ticklish sides, those strong, safe hands pulled him closer. Using the detective's slim waist as an anchor for them both, John stretched slightly upward and kissed his flatmate softly on the mouth.

Sherlock sighed into it, and John stayed a moment, applying gentle pressure, then pulling back to gauge his friend's reponse. He searched for signs in his face, but the detective's eyes remained closed; his body slightly less rigid but still very tense.

"Sherlock?" he half-whispered, stilling his hands and tilting his head to one side. "All right, mate?"

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, and John was on the verge of panic when the taller man's eyes finally blinked open. All at once he smiled at John, surprised, but elated. He began to laugh, a dizzying combination of nerves, excitement, and disbelief. John smiled and giggled in return, immensely relieved.

With one hand, he continued rubbing circles into the detective's back, as Sherlock looked him over in amazement. They stood a moment, taking each other in, until they both grew very serious and John leaned forward to capture Sherlock's lips again. This time the detective relaxed into it, and John held him closer. When Sherlock tentatively began to return the kiss, and placed his own hands on his blogger's waist, John could not begin to describe the elation he felt.

Soon Sherlock's hands were fisted in John's sandy hair, and John pulled back, gazing into the other man's face with a heat that went straight to his loins. Sherlock made an embarrassing whimpering sound, and John fell onto his mouth again, winding one arm around the detective's waist and the other around his shoulders. With a fervor he'd never before experienced, John deepened the kiss and Sherlock responded in kind until both were nearly mindless with desire.

"Well," Sherlock panted, his forehead braced against Johns's. "I suppose that solves both our conundrums."

"What was yours?" the doctor exhaled, tucking an unruly curl behind the detective's ear and pressing a not-so-quick kiss to his swollen lips.

Sherlock moaned at the contact and held the doctor's bottom lip very gently between his teeth. "Irrelevant now." he muttered.

John frowned. "Not fair." Sherlock gave an exaggerated sigh.

"The sleeper car case. I figured out how to go about solving it, but I was wondering how I could persuade you to pose as my companion for an overnight stay in a single compartment..."

This time John's eyebrows rose to the ceiling. Sherlock smirked. "I told you. Not a problem. _Na-ow._ Irrelevant."

"Irrelevant," John repeated almost drunkenly, and resumed snogging his best mate.

**THE END**

****Please R&R! Thanks in advance :)**


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